Just business
by Eledhwen
Summary: Cutler Beckett has some cargo he wants moving. Jack Sparrow may be the man to move it. Set very very pre all the movies. No AWE spoilers. Part 6 and last finally posted, and many many apologies for leaving it so long!
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer:** Not mine, but the Mouse's._

_**Note:** I'm using what's explictly stated in the films as canon for this, rather than anything that's been hinted online about the Beckett/Jack previous relationship._

**Part 1**

Cutler Beckett looked up at the vast black sides of the ship, and down again at the East India Company officer who had recommended her for the new venture.

"Are you quite sure this is the one?" he asked, to be certain. "It looks as though it could fall apart at any moment."

"She won't." The voice came from above, and Beckett looked up again to find its owner.

"Is that a guarantee?" he asked, squinting against the sun and seeing the outline of somebody with far too much hair.

"If you're paying enough, aye."

"Could I come aboard to discuss terms, Mr ┘?"

"Captain," said the man leaning over the side of the ship. "Hop aboard, mate."

On deck, Beckett could not convince himself that things looked any more promising. It was tidy enough, to be sure, but there was a general air of shabbiness about the vessel - and, he observed as its captain approached them, a general air of oddness about him.

The captain stuck out a grubby hand covered in rings. "Captain Jack Sparrow. Welcome aboard the _Black Pearl_."

"Cutler Beckett, East India Trading Company," Beckett introduced himself, shaking the grubby hand briefly. "I understand you are amenable to doing business, Captain Sparrow?"

"Depends on the business," said Sparrow cheerfully. "And on the funds. I assume there will be funds?"

"You will be adequately compensated," Beckett said.

Sparrow flung out an arm, gesturing towards the stern of the black ship. "Drink, mebbe, Mr Beckett? Then we can discuss your terms."

Beckett followed the man across the deck, through a set of doors, and into a spacious if gloomy cabin. It was strewn with geegaws and trinkets, and a pile of charts covered the table.

"Rum?" suggested Sparrow, going to a cabinet at the side of the cabin. "Or brandy?"

"Brandy, thank you." Looking about him, Beckett noted a well-used sword and pistols hanging from a peg. He brushed sand off a chair and sat down. Sparrow brought the brandy, in a chipped crystal glass, and Beckett tried it. "Hmm. Ten-year Armagnac?"

Sparrow settled down in a chair opposite, and propped booted feet on the table. "Spot on."

"Difficult to come by," Beckett said, eyeing the boots.

"Not terribly," said Sparrow easily. "If you know where to get it from. Now, Mr Beckett, what's your business?"

Beckett met his host's eyes. "The East India Company has some ┘ property ┘ we wish to be moved, discreetly, and quickly."

"The _Black Pearl_'s the fastest ship in the Indian Ocean," said Sparrow.

Beckett smiled his thin smile. "So I have heard. Are you discreet, Captain Sparrow?"

Picking up his glass, Sparrow tipped his head back and swallowed whatever liquor he had chosen. "Do I look discreet, mate?"

"You look the very opposite of discreet, Captain," Beckett observed. "I do not care what you _look_ like, I care what you act like. Can you _be_ discreet?"

Sparrow shrugged. "Aye, if it's needed. What's the cargo?"

"Wouldn't you rather know the price?" asked Beckett, hoping he had judged Sparrow correctly, and that avarice would win over curiosity. He watched the captain for a response.

"What's the price, then?" Sparrow asked in return.

"A hundred guineas," Beckett said, keeping his gaze fixed on the other man.

Sparrow stood up, and went to fetch the bottle of brandy. He refilled both glasses, drank his own down in a gulp, and began to wander around the cabin picking up things and putting them down again.

"That's a lot of money," he observed, straightening an African war mask on the cabin wall. He seemed not to expect an answer, but just as Beckett was wondering if he should pursue the matter, Sparrow halted, and bent down. He smelt rather strongly of clothes that needed a wash, Beckett noted. "So what, I ask, would you be wantin' me and my ship to carry, Mr Beckett?"

"Ah," said Beckett. Evidently more than greed drove this man. "Things we would rather not carry officially."

"And unofficially?" Sparrow's tone was still light, but Beckett rather fancied that the captain was rather less casual than he was showing. He made a decision.

"Opium. Rather a lot of it. And gunpowder. Rather a lot of that, too, actually. And a few smaller odds and ends."

"To where?"

"Singapore, Captain Sparrow. You are no doubt aware that our ships are currently plagued by a man calling himself Sao Feng. A pirate, Captain."

"Shocking," said Sparrow, straight-faced. "Well, I sail armed, as I'm sure you noticed. My little cannon are a match for any Chinese junk."

"I did notice," Beckett said. He had; the _Black Pearl_ might be shabby, but her cannon - those on the main deck, at least - were shiny and well cared for.

Sparrow looked satisfied. "Well then, you need not fear for your goods, mate. I want half the money with the goods, and half when we deliver." He held out his hand again. "Do we have an accord, Mr Beckett?"

After a moment, Beckett nodded. He shook.

"We do indeed, Captain Sparrow. The goods will be brought to you tomorrow, and I recommend you set sail immediately. Can you do that?"

"You know very well we're provisioned and ready," said Sparrow, "else you'd not have picked me ship."

"TouchИ," Beckett admitted. "Very well then."

He rose, brushed his coat down, and allowed Sparrow to lead him out of the cabin into the Indian sun outside. He paused, with a hand on the rail and a foot on the gangplank.

"I look forward to doing business with you, Captain," he said.

"Likewise," said Sparrow, sketching a little bow.

Beckett was left with a nagging doubt that he had missed something about Sparrow, and accordingly went back to the harbour the next day to oversee the loading of the _Black Pearl_. He was pleased to note that his orders had been obeyed and there were no East India uniforms in sight; the men on the _Pearl_, while scruffy, were stowing the crates and barrels with swift efficiency.

Sparrow was watching from the poop deck, and greeted Beckett with a nod. "Morning."

"Good morning, Captain Sparrow." Beckett joined him in leaning on the ship's rail to observe the loading. "I trust things are progressing smoothly?

"Aye," Sparrow said, nonchalantly. He turned to Beckett, resting a casual hand on the butt of the pistol stuck in his sash.

"Ah, you want payment," Beckett said. He fished out the bag of coins from inside his coat and tossed it to Sparrow. "Half now, half on arrival."

Sparrow pocketed the bag. "Ta. And who'm I to deliver to?"

Beckett took out the sealed envelope and passed it across. For a moment he wondered whether or not Sparrow could read, or merely make out a chart, but the captain slit the seal with a blackened fingernail, opened the letter and scanned it quickly.

"Very well," he said. He tucked the letter away, and then sharply glanced across at the docks. "Eh - what's that?"

"The rest of your cargo," Beckett returned, after looking in the same direction himself.

The men supervising the loading were eyeing the new arrivals suspiciously, and one of them came towards the poop deck even as Sparrow started down to the main deck.

"Cap'n ┘ apparently we're s'posed to take these on board?"

"Hold it for a second, Mr Turner," said Sparrow. He turned back to Beckett. "Mr Beckett, you never said naught about human cargo."

"Did I not?" Beckett said. "Oh dear. I do, however, recall mentioning additional goods. I don't believe _you_ bothered to ascertain what they were."

Sparrow came back up the steps to the poop deck and leaned in very close, lowering his voice. "Mr Beckett - I don't carry slaves."

"I'm surprised you have such morals," Beckett replied.

"Are you, eh?"

Beckett lifted his chin to meet Sparrow's dark, angry eyes. "Let us retire to your cabin, Captain, to discuss this."

"Aye, p'raps we'd better." They proceeded down the steps to the main deck, where Sparrow had a brief, hushed conversation with the man Turner, before throwing open the door to the captain's cabin and waiting, ironically polite, for Beckett to enter.

Once inside the politeness dropped.

"I won't carry slaves," Sparrow said again. "I'd rather throw all your bloody goods off me ship, and the coin too."

"Yes, but you won't," said Beckett, folding his hands behind his back.

"And why not?" asked Sparrow.

Beckett sat down, comfortable, and secure in the knowledge that what he was doing was the right thing, and that the annoying Sparrow would give in.

"Because if you don't carry my cargo - _all_ my cargo - to Singapore, and deliver it," Beckett said, "there will be consequences for you and your crew. The penalty for piracy, as I'm sure you are all too aware, is death, Captain Sparrow."

Sparrow, to his credit, merely shrugged. "And why should that concern me, mate? I'm just an honest sailor tryin' to make an honest livin'."

"No, Captain Sparrow, you are a pirate," Beckett said. "Our sphere of influence extends far beyond the Indian Ocean. We can disown you like that." He snapped his fingers in Sparrow's face. "You will carry this cargo, or pay the price."

"We may be pirates," Sparrow said, "but at least we don't resort to blackmail." He threw the bag of money at Beckett.

"I prefer to call it manipulation," said Beckett calmly, fielding the bag and throwing it back. "Keep the coin."

Sparrow, tellingly, put the money back inside his jacket.

"Done," he said. "We'll take the cargo. All the bloody cargo."

"I knew you'd come around," Beckett said, standing up. "Well then. Have a safe voyage, Captain."

He left the cabin with Sparrow standing watching him go. Once on the dockside, Beckett watched from a distance as the twenty slaves were ushered on board the _Black Pearl_ and taken below. Shortly afterwards, she cast off her mooring lines as men hurried aloft to let the patched, black sails hang in their gear. The great ship moved smoothly off her berth and out into the harbour, and Cutler Beckett, satisfied, turned on his heel and went off to deal with other business.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, but the Mouse's.

**Part 2**

Once they were out at sea and Jack was sure they were not being surreptitiously escorted by an East Indiaman, he went below to inspect the cargo. 

The crates of opium and barrels of gunpowder had been carefully stacked and secured with good, seamanlike knots. The containers took up a good deal of the hold. At the other end, huddled in a group and looking both nervous and scared, were the slaves. They appeared to be all lower-caste Indians, and had been chained together. They tried to shift backwards as Jack approached, and he spread his hands in what was hopefully a conciliatory gesture. 

"Eh. Not goin' to hurt you," he said. "Anyone here speak English? Or French'd do." 

"I speak English," one man said, lifting his head. "Where are you taking us?" 

"I'm s'posed to take you to Singapore," said Jack. "Them's me orders, and what I've been paid for. I'm just not sure I've a mind to obey them. How did the lot o' ye get into such a state, anyway?" 

The man shrugged, making his chains jangle. "We had few rights. We were taken by the Company." 

"Well, you've a right to be free," Jack said. "Every bugger has a right to be free. You bide there, and I'll fetch the carpenter down to get you out of them chains. After that, we'll have a chat to work out what to do with you." 

He left the English speaker translating for the others, and went to find Jones the carpenter. 

Jones, muttering that he was used to working in wood, not metal, and anyway what about the money, nevertheless found some tools that would break the shackles and set to work. Within a relatively short time the slaves were rubbing wrists and blinking in the bright sun on deck, while the _Black Pearl_'s crew eyed their erstwhile cargo and their captain. 

"What?" said Jack, eyeing them right back. "Would you have me - would you have us be a slaver?" 

"No, cap'n," said Bill Turner, scratching his head. "But we'd rather not have the ship blown out of the water, neither." 

"Mr Turner, there'll be no talk of being blown out of the water!" Jack returned, though he felt that the time-honoured tradition of running away might be a better option if one of the East India Trading Company's larger frigates turned up. "Now, I suggest we sail on for a while. These fine gents can help as they can until we put them off the ship." 

There was a brief pause while the translation took place, and the slaves discussed their options. 

"We will stay, for a while," said the English-speaker. "Maybe you can leave us at Sri Lanka?" 

"Mebbe," Jack agreed. "Mr Turner, Mr Frattori, find these gentlemen spare blankets, hammocks, clothes, whatever we have. Mr Turner, once you've done that, bring 'em to me cabin and we'll get them into the ship's articles." 

"Aye, cap'n," said Bill Turner. 

Jack retired to his cabin, and pulled out the orders he had been given by Cutler Beckett before leaving port. They were, unfortunately, fairly specific and left little wriggle-room should the East India Company discover that the slaves were, no longer, actually slaves. He turned his attention to the chart spread out on the table before him, and spent the time before his new crew arrived plotting routes that would take them well away from well-armed eyes. 

The Indians arrived fairly shortly, clad in an assortment of spare clothes donated by existing crew as well as things hoarded from recent raids. Jack looked them up and down. Most of the men were on the skinnier side, but it was a lean, tough skinniness developed through years of manual labour. 

"Any of you sailed 'afore?" Jack asked, digging out the Ship's Articles and opening the book. 

"Three of us," said the English-speaker, after a quick conversation. "On fishing boats, mostly." 

"All right," said Jack. "We'll stick those three in as able seamen, and the rest o' you as ordinary seamen. Name?" 

He went through all twenty men, carefully spelling out their names where they knew the spelling, and guessing where he did not. Each man made his mark, and finally Jack scattered sand across the page, blew it off, and closed the Articles firmly. 

"There. You're all free men, so long as you obey the orders of the ship. And the Code. Where it's right to do so." 

"The Code?" asked the English-speaker, whose name was Aarit. 

"Ask Mr Turner," Jack returned. "He's good with things like that. Now, those of you in the starboard watch are on watch now, so off you pop and ask Mr Brown to show you the ropes. There'll probably be quite a lot of showing. Go on!" He flicked his hands at them, and the starboard watch shuffled off. 

Over the next few days the slaves settled in well to their new lives aboard the _Black Pearl_. They turned out to be obedient, agile and quick to learn despite the language issues. Jack found himself picking up scraps of Hindi, and the Indians soon got the hang of "man the braces", "haul away" and other useful nautical terms. The wind held steady and they made good progress eastwards. 

On the evening of the fourth day out of Bombay, Aarit came to Jack's cabin after coming off watch. 

"Good evening, Captain," he said. 

"Evening," said Jack, who was writing up the day's log by the light of a candle. "Have a seat." 

Aarit pulled out a chair and sat down. "We have been talking," he said. "Some of the men want to be put ashore. They say Sri Lanka is good." 

"Sri Lanka it will be, then," said Jack. "We'll be there in a couple of days. What about them that don't want to be put ashore?" 

"We would like to stay," said Aarit. "Here we are treated as equals, with respect. We like that." 

Jack nodded. "That's the way of it. We're equals - save for I'm the captain, which means you have to listen to what I say - but there ain't no point in treatin' the men like weevils." 

Aarit picked dirt from his fingernails. "The Company did. And it was not just us; they treated all our nation like we were nothing. They were the conquerors." He looked up at Jack, something faintly accusing in his eyes. "You took money from them." 

"Got to turn a profit," said Jack. "Normally I'd be content to simply attack a ship, but occasionally it's worth earning an honest penny. Semi-honest," he added, after a moment's consideration. "But I never signed up for cargoing people. Happy to smuggle contraband; it's an ancient and respectable sort o' trade, that. Not slaves. Slaves is taking away a man's freedom." 

"So what happens if you are caught, now?" asked Aarit. 

Jack grinned, cheerfully. "Ain't goin' to happen, mate." 

In truth, he did not feel as confident as he sounded. He was still debating whether to try and appeal to Sao Feng, but rather doubted that the Chinaman would want to join forces after that unfortunate affair with the girls and the fireworks a few years previously. The other option would be to deliver the opium and gunpowder and try and convince the buyer that all the slaves had perished on the journey. 

Still, the voyage continued without incident. They put off half the slaves at Sri Lanka, and resupplied with fresh fruit, vegetables, meat and water. Jack let the men have a night ashore, and they set sail again the next morning in good spirits. The trade winds were holding, and he put the problem of delivery to the back of his mind. 

As Singapore drew closer Jack set a double lookout, ordering the men to keep a sharp eye for both pirates and the East India Trading Company. Neither would be welcome guests at this juncture. The day before they raised land he summoned Bill Turner to his cabin for a conference. 

"I'd assumed you had a plan, Jack," said Bill, after hearing his captain's worries. 

"Everyone always does," Jack replied. "Mostly they're right." 

Bill frowned. "So you want to get paid, get rid of the cargo, and avoid Sao Feng and the Company?" 

"Aye." 

"I reckon the death bit's the best option," said Bill, after pausing for thought. "Maybe we say that some o' our men came down with whatever it is. Keep 'em off the ship. And mebbe keep the new blokes below while we're in port, just in case?" 

Jack nodded. "Would make sense. All right. That's how we'll play it. Brief the men, would you?" 

When they put into Singapore the distinctive shape of Sao Feng's flagship, the _Empress_, was nowhere to be seen, for which Jack was devoutly grateful. He made sure they were anchored well away from other ships, particularly the two fleet-looking sloops with East India Trading Company colours across the other side of the harbour. He sent his Italian bosun Frattori ashore in the longboat to make contact with the buyer, and set the men to tidying the ship. 

By the time Frattori returned every sail was furled in a neat, tight harbour-stow; every line was coiled and hung on its pin; and the deck was spotless. Surveying his ship from the stern, Jack felt immensely proud of her, and as much in love with her as he had ever been. 

"I found him," said Frattori, coming aboard. "He said we should bring the stuff over this evening." 

"You didn't mention the ┘" 

"He did not ask, _Capitano_," Frattori interjected. "So far, the plan works." 

"Course it works," said Jack. "It's my bloody plan." 

Leaving the Indians and most of the crew on board, with strict instructions that the former slaves were to stay below for the duration of the stay in Singapore, Jack took the rest of the cargo ashore after night had fallen. The longboats were packed tight with the crates and barrels, covered with pieces of sacking, and they landed at the quiet spot specified by the buyer. 

He was there waiting, a burly white man surrounded by Chinese guards with pistols and swords. Jack splashed out of the longboat towards him. 

"Evenin'. Brought your stuff." 

"Some of it." The buyer gestured to some of his men to help the crew of the _Pearl_ begin unloading. "Where's the rest?" 

"Ah." Jack grinned, reassuringly. "Slight problem in transit, mate." 

"A problem?" 

Jack nodded. "They all had some blinking disease. First one got it, then the lot o' them. Horrible, it was. I could see the coin just wasting away." 

"What sort of disease?" 

"I dunno!" Jack said. "I'm a sailor, not a doctor. End of the matter was, they all died on me. We had to chuck 'em all overboard." 

"They all died?" asked the man. 

"Every single one," said Jack. "And two of my men too. I'm sorry; I'd've like to've delivered them all to you." He played his trump card. "You'd be welcome to search the ship, only I've still got men sick." Behind him, Bill Turner paused in lifting a crate to cough violently. "And maybe more," Jack added. "Mr Turner! Leave off that lifting, and wait apart from the other men." 

The buyer sighed. "I suppose it's a danger of buying men from that disease-ridden place. Should've known. Tell Mr Beckett that next time I'll stick to locals." He fished a leather bag out of his jacket, opened it, and poured out a handful of coin. "Nonetheless, Captain, I'm not paying you full whack. You ain't earned it." 

"Fair enough," said Jack, bowing slightly. He accepted the reduced bag. "Thank you, sir. Appreciated." He looked round at his men. "Step lively there, gents; don't want to keep the man waiting, do we?" 

In short order the opium and gunpowder were unloaded, and the longboats were pulling back to the _Pearl_. Jack had noted with pleasure that on this dark, cloudy night the black ship was scarcely visible from the shore, and once they were back aboard he gave his orders quietly. The men obeyed with alacrity, and it was not long before the _Black Pearl_ was slipping silently out of harbour with topsails and staysails set, bound west. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, but the Mouse's.

**Part 3**

The sloop caught up with the East India Company's flagship _Perseverance_ late in the evening, and the message arrived with Cutler Beckett's last cup of tea of the day. He poured the tea before slitting the seal. 

"Ah," he said. 

"Problem?" asked the ship's captain, Moore, a capable veteran of the Company who had previously served in the Royal Navy. 

Beckett stirred another sugar cube into his cup. "A gamble I took has not paid off. Or perhaps it has. Order a lookout set for a ship with black sails." 

"And if we see her?" 

Sipping his tea, Beckett smiled. "Then, I rather fancy the men will get some gun practice." 

"They would like that," Moore said. "Ship with black sails it is." 

Beckett looked down at the message once more. It reported that the _Black Pearl_ had put into harbour and made as if she was staying for several days, but had slipped away the same night. It was only because Beckett had ordered a watch set on her activities in Singapore that the escape had been spotted so soon. 

In his cabin that night, as the _Perseverance_ forged her way through the ocean and a block tapped regularly against the deck above his head, Beckett considered the problem of Jack Sparrow. He had known after the first meeting that there might be a problem; Sparrow was clearly a loose cannon that needed to be controlled. It was there in every flicker of the fingers and every braid on his head. 

Beckett had thought that the money would be sufficient for Sparrow to carry out the simple task set for him and not deviate from his course. He realised now he had been wrong. 

The block tapped. Beckett rolled on to his side and closed his eyes. The problem of Jack Sparrow would shortly be resolved, once and for all. 

It was three days before the _Black Pearl_ was sighted, close-hauled on the starboard tack three miles to the south. Captain Moore called for Beckett, and after consultation they decided to keep on their course for another few hours before turning and pursuing the _Pearl_. 

"She's fast," the captain reported, an hour later. "If we don't make the turn now we'll lose her, sir." 

Beckett came out on deck and borrowed Moore's telescope. "Damn," he said quietly. "Well. Can we catch her?" 

"If we risk the stuns'ls," said the captain after a moment's thought. "The wind's a little strong, perhaps, but the extra canvas would give us a knot or two. Enough, maybe." 

"Do it," Beckett said, snapping the telescope shut. 

The sailors muttered, but they went aloft and half an hour or so after the _Perseverance_ had tacked ship she was carrying all six studdingsails on the foremast and was forging through the water. By nightfall at two bells of the first watch, they had gained some distance on the _Pearl_. 

"Will it be enough?" Beckett asked. 

"Hard to say," said Moore. "He's good, sir. She's carrying every inch of canvas she has, and she's using it well. We just have to hope our stuns'ls will do the trick." 

That night Beckett did not sleep. Instead he paced his cabin, and when he grew tired of that he went up on deck and paced there, ignoring the glances from the men on watch. The _Perseverance_ was running with dimmed lights, and the stars above were bright and clear in a moonless sky. Every now and then Beckett paced all the way to the bows, borrowed the lookout's telescope, and peered fruitlessly into the black. 

In the morning there was still a black speck on the horizon, but she seemed to be further away. Moore confirmed as much. 

"I had heard the _Black Pearl_ was one of the fastest afloat," he said to Beckett. "No idea what makes her so quick, but unless we get some odd weather we'll lose him." 

They did not get odd weather, and by nightfall the _Pearl_ was out of sight. Beckett ordered the chase to continue nonetheless. 

Several more days went by without sight of the black ship, and the few Company ships they passed had not seen her either. Finally, only a hundred miles or so away from the edge of Company jurisdiction, there was better news. One of the Company's 32-gun ships - an older vessel, but seaworthy and commanded by a good man - sailed within hailing distance, and gave news that she had seen a black ship with no visible colours at anchor, half a day's sail away. 

"He's made his mistake," said Beckett, hearing the news. Within half an hour both the _Perseverance_ and the 32-gunner were heading towards the _Pearl_'s anchorage. There was most of the day left to get there. Fortune had finally turned. 

Beckett knew that his quarry was run to ground when, at five bells of the afternoon watch the _Black Pearl_ was sighted, with little sea-room to make her escape. By six bells Beckett could see, through his telescope, Sparrow gesticulating at his helmsman on the poop deck of the pirate ship. At seven bells the Company vessels ran out their guns. 

"I want the captain alive," Beckett said. "You can kill the rest; we have no use for them." 

They fired a couple of warning shots towards the _Pearl_, which responded by running up a white flag and adding a quarantine signal. 

"It's a ruse," Beckett told Captain Moore. "Bring her alongside, and board her. Search her thoroughly." 

The two Company ships drew up on either side of the black vessel, and marines from the _Perseverance_ boarded swiftly. Beckett, watching from the poop deck, noted that there was no resistance from the pirates. Indeed there seemed to be remarkably few of them, with just a handful gathered by the mainmast and guarded by marines with bayonets. A short while later Sparrow was brought across to the _Perseverance_ in manacles. 

"Do you not know the meaning of them two flags?" he asked, as soon as he had reached the poop deck. "First one means please don't blow any holes in me ship; second one means coming aboard might be risky to your health." 

"We're perfectly aware of the meaning of the flags," Beckett returned. "I do not, however, believe for a moment that you _meant_ either of them." He flicked the message from Singapore out of his coat pocket. "I received this a few days ago, Captain Sparrow. Apparently you failed to deliver all the cargo." 

Sparrow looked down at Beckett. "As I explained to the fellow who was buying said cargo, it all bleeding died on me. Hence the quarantine flag. And you might've noticed I'm strangely lacking in crew. Most of them died on me too. You gave me a shipload of disease, Mr Beckett." 

"Did I?" Beckett shook his head. "I don't believe I did, Captain Sparrow. All those slaves had received a full assessment from one of the Company's best surgeons before being brought to you. None of them were sick." 

The captain of the marines approached the poop and saluted smartly. "Search completed, sir. The hold's perhaps a quarter-full - some coin, silks, weapons, spices, and provisions." 

"Bring it across," Beckett said. "Go on." 

"Crew of eight," said the marine. "All claim to be survivors of some illness. They seem healthy enough." 

"So did the rest, before they popped their clogs," put in Sparrow. 

"And there's only one longboat," the marine concluded. "And we found these." 

He threw down a bundle of coloured cloth; colours from a variety of countries, a tattered East India Trading Company flag, and a large, black banner emblazoned with a white skull and crossbones. Beckett held the latter up to Sparrow, who shrugged. 

"Don't take away from the truth of what I've said," he said, calmly. 

"Thank you," said Beckett to the marine. "Unload the hold." 

He watched Sparrow watching the contents of his ship be transferred to the _Perseverance_. The other man's posture was relaxed, but his face was set and emotionless as the goods arrived on board. The process took a while, and Beckett called for tea while the marines and sailors worked. On board the _Pearl_, the crew had settled down around the mast and appeared resigned. 

Eventually the transfer was complete. Beckett called Moore over. "If that's all, Captain, you may open fire." 

Sparrow's mask abruptly fell, and he swung around to face Beckett with fire in his eyes. "Open _fire_?" 

"I think you heard me," Beckett said. 

"Belay that," Sparrow snapped, speaking to Moore, who hesitated under the tone of the pirate's voice. "It'd be murder," he continued, turning back to Beckett. "Sheer bloody murder." 

"Are you talking about your crew or your ship?" Beckett asked, genuinely interested. 

Sparrow's gaze flicked back to the _Black Pearl_. "Both," he said. "Look, mate, I'll repay you your coin. Keep me prisoner, if you have to." 

"I warned you that the penalty for piracy is death," Beckett said. "You seemed perfectly aware of that. It was the risk you ran; it will be the price you pay. What profit would there be for me to let you and your men sail away, Captain Sparrow?" 

"I will sail away," said Sparrow. "Head back to the Caribbean. Refrain from attacking your ships. Or I'll give the word for the men to do it, if you're so set on hanging me." 

Beckett sighed, and put his teacup down. "Still no profit, Captain. Understand me. This is the way the world is, now. We do business. If those we do business with break a bargain, then we take the necessary action. That is good business. Piracy is bad business, as you have no doubt now realised." He turned to Moore. "Open fire." 

Moore nodded, and nodded again at Sparrow, and gave the order. 

The _Perseverance_'s first shot caught the _Black Pearl_ just aft of her bowsprit, and Beckett saw Sparrow flinch as if he himself had been hit. On the port side, the 32-gunner began her broadside. 

The Company's gunners were good, experienced at defending their ships and cargo. Each shot hit home; bringing down the _Pearl_'s high masts, thudding into her hull, splintering the rail. Sparrow watched silently, gripping the rail with his manacled hands so his knuckles showed white as the eight men aboard the black ship screamed for help and then fell silent under the cannonade. After the first broadside from both Company ships the _Black Pearl_ was listing badly, her foremast gone completely, her main topmast fractured, her crossjack yard trailing in the sea. 

The second broadside began a moment later, the balls holing the pirate ship's hull further. A third was evidently not needed, and Moore called a halt to the firing. She was taking on water swiftly now, the bodies of her dead crew already afloat where the maindeck used to be. 

"It's just good business, Captain Sparrow," Beckett said to the silent figure of the pirate captain. "Just good business." 


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, but the Mouse's.

**Part 4**

In the brig, Jack was dimly aware that the _Perseverance_ had made sail and was picking up speed, taking her away from the spot where the _Black Pearl_ and her eight crewmen had met their untimely end. 

Even when he closed his eyes he could still see her, sinking slowly beneath the blue waves; he could still hear the noise of roaring guns and cracking wood. His ship, his great black lady, was gone. Drowned and dead, drifting to Davy Jones's Locker. 

Jack, for perhaps only the second or third time in his life, put his head in his hands. 

Later that day, as the frigate beat onwards with a slight heel to port and the water creaming smoothly under her hull, someone brought Jack a cup of water and a ship's biscuit. He ate and drank mechanically, but his mind was with the men in the other longboat. They had drawn lots to stay on board, but all the former slaves were in the longboat, along with Bill Turner and other capable sailors. The plan had been a good one, everyone had agreed when they saw the towering white wings of the _Perseverance_ on the horizon. Jack had been almost sure Beckett would buy it, and had been certain that if he had not bought it then he himself would be seen as the main culprit and the rest of the crew would be able to rejoin the _Pearl_ and make good their escape. 

He knew now he had underestimated the Company man; grossly underestimated him. And so, some of his men were dead, others were adrift with few supplies, and the _Pearl_ was gone. 

The days passed slowly and hungrily. Jack tried not to think about his ship or his men, but try as he might the memories kept coming. Memories of night watches in the Caribbean, sailing sweetly under a starry sky. Memories of audacious raids and daring tricks that usually came off. Memories of the day he first saw the _Black Pearl_, her high stern and elaborate carving and the bird taking flight from the figurehead's hand. 

At night he dreamed he was back at the helm, driving his lady onwards ever swifter with the trade winds. He sat in the rigging, legs astride the topgallant yard, nothing below but black sea and black canvas. He wrestled with the sopping wet staysails in a storm, the wind whipping his hair around his face, the sea rising up to meet him as the ship dove into the troughs. 

He woke to the dim filth of the _Perseverance_'s brig, her creaking timbers and the silent guard who brought him his scant provisions. 

By the time the East Indiaman reached Bombay, Jack was spending more time lost in the world that was gone than in the world he was in. He was dragged off the ship in manacles and transferred to another cell, where he lay for another night. 

In the morning someone brought him a bowl of water and a cloth, and later another guard arrived, unlocked the cell and hauled him to his feet. 

"Mr Beckett wants to see you." 

"He does, does he?" said Jack, vaguely. "That's nice." 

The way to Beckett took them outside, and Jack blinked in the sun and realised he was on land, the _Pearl_ was gone, and he was in manacles and on his way to confront the man who had destroyed his ship. He blinked again, and as the door opened and he was admitted into Cutler Beckett's office, he lifted his chin and straightened his shoulders. 

"Oh, there you are." Beckett turned from examining a chart, and pulled out a chair. "You can go," he said to the guards, and sat down. 

"Nice little place you have here," said Jack, leaning on a cabinet. 

Beckett, he was pleased to see, looked taken aback for a split second. "Indeed. Yes." He straightened papers on his desk, and lifted his head. "Jack Sparrow. Why don't you tell me what really happened?" 

"I told you what really happened," said Jack. 

Shaking his head, Beckett leaned back in his chair. "There was one longboat aboard the _Black Pearl_ when we came upon it the other day. You had two when you left Bombay." He paused. "There's no point in illusion any more, Jack. Your ship is gone and your crew are dead. There is nothing left but yourself." 

Jack shrugged. "You knew what I'd do. You knew I wouldn't carry 'em to Singapore. We weren't a day out when I let 'em go. Some of 'em joined the crew." 

"The others?" 

"Put them ashore," said Jack. "I won't say where." 

Beckett rearranged papers again. "It hardly matters. They do not matter, save for the fact they did not reach their buyer. You are guilty as charged." 

"I don't recall you charging me," said Jack. "I recall you boarding my ship, _after_ we'd raised a white flag. And anyway ain't it the King what's supposed to charge a man?" 

"We act on the King's behalf in these territories," Beckett returned, leaning back. 

"Judge, jury and executioner, then?" said Jack, watching the other man carefully. 

Beckett rose, and went to poke at his little fire. "Judge and jury, for the moment," he said. "I am waiting for your execution warrant to be signed." 

"Oh!" exclaimed Jack. "I see. You can't kill me without someone scribbling their name on a bit of paper, but you could open fire on my men?" He laughed. "Bloody brilliant, that is." 

"Justice must be seen to be done," said Beckett. He pulled his poker out of the fire and held it up, and Jack saw that instead of a normal poker end it was shaped like a letter; and it was glowing red-hot. He took a step backwards, his mind working overtime. 

"Funny thing to build a fire with," he said, lightly, looking around for something to use as a weapon. There appeared to be nothing. 

Eyeing the poker thoughtfully, Beckett approached him. "The fire's hot enough," he said. 

Jack stepped backwards again. "You know, I'm minded to start a whole new life," he said quickly. "Mebbe join your band of merry East Indiamen or something. Give up me life of crime." He gestured with his shackled hands at his head. "Could even be persuaded to cut me hair, perhaps. There's a whole new world out there, I reckon." He stepped again, and hit the wall. 

"There's nowhere to run," said Beckett. "I can't hang you - yet - but I can do this, and give you something to consider while you await the noose." 

He reached out, pushed Jack's grubby sleeve up his arm, and jabbed hard with the poker. There was a swift, unpleasant scent of burned flesh; a sensation of incredible pain; and all was black. 

Jack awoke later back in the darkness of his cell with his right forearm smarting. He sat up, his muscles protesting, and peered at the arm. Etched into the skin in livid pink was a large, clear 'P'. 

"Well, that's just great, ain't it?" Jack said to himself. 

There was nothing in the cell that could help the pain - only a tin cup of water and a rolled-up, stale flat bread. Jack drank the water and chewed at the dry bread for a while, considering his scanty options. Escape seemed to be out of the option. Rescue was probably out too; Bill Turner and the others would be miles away. 

He swore out loud, at length and in several languages; cursed Cutler Beckett in particular and the East India Company in general, before throwing in a curse towards Calypso for forgetting the _Pearl_, now in the perfidious clutches of Davy Jones ┘ 

Jack stopped cursing, and stared at the iron bars. Davy Jones. Davy Jones, that was the key. If only there was a key to the cell. 

He tried searching in corners, to see if there was anything handy. There wasn't. He scrabbled at his hair, and wished he had thought to conceal something sharp and pointy in it. At the least, if it did not open the cell, it could have been used to ensure there were no boots for the hangman. 

Eventually he gave up, and slumped in the corner. There was no use even trying. The _Pearl_ was gone, and that was that. Death would be welcome. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, but the Mouse's.

**Part 5**

When in Bombay, Beckett started each day with a large pot of tea, roti and dal, the latest-possible newspaper from London, and any dispatches that might have been delivered overnight. 

His habit had been to read the newspaper first, despite it being at least six months old; but in recent days he had turned to the pile of letters while sipping his first tea of the day, flicking through to find the handwriting of his Company superiors. 

Irritatingly, today was yet another day without the grand sealed document that would send Jack Sparrow to the gallows. Beckett pushed the rest of the mail aside and turned to the newspaper. But there was little of interest in it - a list of ships that had safely arrived at London, reports from Parliament, and so on. He folded the newspaper up and threw it on to a nearby table. Rolling up a neat parcel of dal inside a roti, he chewed and thought about Sparrow. The reports each day had been unvarying: the pirate ate what was given him, said little, and appeared to be spending most of his days sitting in a corner of his cell. 

He finished his breakfast and went through the other letters, putting some aside to reply to later, noting the contents of others and throwing two or three on to the fire. The newspaper was next - the usual list of political rows, litany of crimes in London and punishments at Tyburn, and other petty matters. He finished it, and added it to the pile of documents for his secretary. Standing up, Beckett pulled on his coat. Really it was too hot in this country for the good cloth, but appearances mattered and so he would suffer. 

Walking through the complex of offices, living quarters and the cells that housed the Company's headquarters, Beckett greeted officers and agents. He passed by the cells, and looked in briefly on Sparrow, who seemed to be asleep in a huddle on the floor. 

Outside the blazing sunshine made him blink, and as usual the colours and odours of the street washed over him in a rush. Beckett turned left, and made for the docks where he had business with Company ships. 

The business took most of the morning, with cargo manifests to check, captains to meet and ships to inspect. Business seemed good, and everything was running as smoothly as it should. 

Beckett was in a good mood as he turned to make his way back towards headquarters, swinging his cane with his head held high. So the attack, when it came, was somewhat unexpected. The cane was knocked out of his hand, a large, strong palm was clapped over his mouth, and he was dragged off swiftly into an alley where everything went black. 

He woke up in the dimness of a room smelling of spices and incense, with his hands tied efficiently behind his back. He tested the knots, but they held well. 

"Don't count on 'em coming undone," said a voice. "Sailor's knots, Mr Beckett. They'll hold. Now, what have you done with our captain?" 

Beckett tried to see his captors, but they seemed to be staying out of what little light there was. 

"He's due to hang," he said, instead. 

"When?" 

"Soon," said Beckett, hedging. 

"He won't hang," the voice returned, laughing. 

"I think he will," Beckett said. 

"He's Jack Sparrow," said the man. "Not easy to kill." 

"Who are you?" asked Beckett, squinting into the gloom. "I demand to know who you are!" 

There was a whispered conversation, and then footsteps. A figure came into Beckett's view - a vaguely familiar face. 

"Sparrow's mate," he said, after a moment. "Turner, I believe." 

Turner nodded. "Good memory. Where's the _Pearl_, Mr Beckett?" 

"At the bottom of the sea," Beckett said. "I thought you would all be with it." 

"The cap'n thought you might try something," said Turner. "Put most of us off ship before you attacked, after we'd spied your frigate." 

"We just should have run," muttered a pirate in the darkness. 

"We'd have caught you, eventually," said Beckett calmly, trying as he spoke to work out what the best way out of this situation would be. "However, as you gathered, Sparrow's noble efforts rather backfired. Or, were fired upon, depending on which way you'd like to look at it. If you rescue him - which I must tell you will not happen - you have nowhere to run." 

"We'll work something out," Turner said. "That's not your problem, Mr Beckett. Your problem is that you'll have a cutlass to the neck if you don't release the cap'n." 

"I should take your word?" 

"If you want me word on the fact I'll happily put a sword to you, aye, you have it," said Turner. "Or I could let me mates have at you." 

There was a disconcerting chorus of growls from the darkness, and Beckett flinched. 

"Cap'n said you were all about doing business," Turner went on. "So here's our deal. We'll all take a walk, you'll get us the key to the cap'n's cell; we'll give you the coin you paid for that bloody cargo." 

Beckett raised his eyebrows, although the effect would have been lost, given the gloom. "All the coin?" 

"All of it. Jack don't go in for blood money." There was a pause. "Well?" 

"All right," said Beckett, deciding to play along, for the moment. He had no doubt that the threat to murder him was genuine; he was less certain about the offer of the money, but it was worth the gamble. "Untie me." 

Somebody came forward and gripped his arm, and Turner pulled out a small knife and slit the ropes. Beckett felt his hands come free, and he brought them in front of him and massaged the wrists to get the feeling back. 

"Very well then," he said. "Shall we?" 

In daylight Turner, who was walking on one side of him, appeared to be a good-looking man despite the general shabbiness of his clothes. On the other side, Beckett recognised one of the slaves, now in sailor's garb with a cutlass by his side. He could feel a solid mass of other men behind him, and mingling with the crowd close by - escape was out of the question. 

So he took them to Company headquarters, where Turner and the slave accompanied him inside. They hovered while Beckett obtained the key to Sparrow's cell from a guard, and then came close and followed him there. 

Sparrow was asleep, but started awake when Turner went in and shook him. 

"Has the wind changed, Mr Turner? Can't you trim the sails without me?" 

"Jack - we've come to get you out, you daft bugger," said Turner. 

Sparrow sat up, and looked about him. "Oh. Why?" 

Turner hauled his captain to his feet. "Because we won't see you hang. Come on. We ain't got long." 

He draped Sparrow's arm over his shoulder and half-carried him out of the cell. The slave turned a white smile on Beckett. 

"Your turn," he said, astonishingly in English, and pushed Beckett into the cell. The door slammed, and the pirates were gone. 

"Damn," said Beckett, and started calling for the guards. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, but the Mouse's.

**Note:** Sorry for the looooooong delay in finishing this. I couldn't decide what mark Jack had left on Beckett, and then I got distracted by _Doctor Who_. But it turned out there was really only one chapter left - here it is.

**Part 6**

Awakening with a breeze on his face, it took Jack a few moments to work out where he was. After the rescue, Bill Turner and the others had whisked him along the streets and into the maze of shanties near the dock. They were there now, the door to the hut open so the sea air blew in freshly.

Turner himself was by the door, but he turned when Jack moved and was swiftly by his thin pallet.

"Cap'n?" 

"'M all right," said Jack, sitting up. "Thirsty." Bill handed him a cup of water, followed by a flask of rum. "You're a bloody legend," Jack said, drinking deeply of both. "Now, how the hell did you manage to get me out?"

He listened as Bill told the story, and laughed heartily at the end. It felt good to laugh - it had been too long.

"The others are dead," he said, once Bill had fallen silent.

"We figured," said Bill. "When you never came to the meeting point, an' the others never turned up."

Jack examined his brand, which no longer hurt and was beginning to fade from its livid colour. "There was no mercy for them," he said. "My _Pearl_'s at the bottom of the sea."

"Aye, he's a rotten bastard, all right," Bill agreed. "But listen, Jack. Aarit's found us a ship - well, a boat, more like, but she's seaworthy and she'll get us away from this place. Sailing tonight." 

Getting to his feet, Jack stretched experimentally. "Good. Now, I'll need a sword, and a pistol if you have one." He went to the door, peering up at the slithers of sky showing between rooftops. "What's the time?"

He had expected Bill to argue, but he hadn't quite expected him to stand in the doorway and bar the way.

"I'm orderin' you to move!" Jack said.

"You're half-starved and you'll be outnumbered!" Bill countered, arms folded. "We ain't risked our lives to get you out only for you to go charging back in there."

Jack folded his own arms. "I've got to deal with the bastard. I'll meet you at the ship at sundown."

The disguise took a short time to prepare - despite Bill's continued resistance to the plan, the rest of the crew were more amenable. Aarit offered to join Jack, but Jack declined. This was something he had to do alone. He left the crew with a promise to meet them by sundown; if not, they were to sail.

"But I'll be there," he said, projecting confidence he did not really feel.

They wished him luck, and Jack was on his own.

In the disguise he was able to move with ease through the crowded streets, attracting no attention. Just another native, going about everyday business.

From the outside, the East India Company's quarters were imposing. Jack noted the high walls and the guards on duty, and surreptitiously loosened his borrowed sword in its sheath. With his other arm he adjusted the basket on his head, and kept going.

There was just one guard at the gate where supplies were brought in and out, a young man. Jack checked his disguise one last time, and approached.

"_Namaste_," he said, pitching his voice high and soft and bowing his head as best he could with a basket on top of it.

The guard gave him a once-over, a grin, and jerked his head to allow Jack through the gate.

Jack went past, almost wishing things had been more tricky. This was too easy - something was bound to go wrong.

He kept going, following his nose. The cells were close by, he knew, but he bypassed them and headed to the main buildings of the complex. In a quiet corner, Jack paused and put down the basket of spices he had been carrying on his head, native-style. He dug out his pistol - borrowed from Frattori, and now smelling of cardamom - and shed the violet sari that had been concealing his shirt and breeches and sword.

The corridors of the house were quiet, cool and dark. Jack crept forward, keeping an alert eye and ear out for others moving around. He was not certain how he would find Beckett's office, but round two more corners he recognised a tapestry on the wall, and a short way down the corridor he found the door he was seeking.

He checked the corridor again. No guards. Trying the door, Jack found it was open. Sword in hand, he slipped through.

Beckett had his back turned, and was busy with a pile of papers. He did not react to Jack's presence until the sword blade was at his throat.

"Put the quill down," Jack said, softly.

Beckett did so, raising his hands and turning. "I must say I'm impressed," he said, "and somewhat surprised. I thought you and your merry band would be well gone by now."

"I had unfinished business," Jack returned. "I ain't the sort to leave unfinished business unfinished."

"You were rescued," said Beckett, eyebrows raised. "What's unfinished?"

Jack pressed the sword into Beckett's neck. "I don't care about being banged up for a while," he said. "Ain't the first time, sure it won't be the last. But you murdered me crew and you sank me ship."

"You broke your word," Beckett said. "We had a business agreement." 

"That's all this is to you, business?" Jack said, taking the sword away. "Don't move. Just business?" 

Beckett smiled, thinly. "Business, Captain Sparrow, is _everything_. It puts food on tables and clothes on backs. Business will rule this world when every pirate ship is rotting on the bottom of the sea."

Jack sifted through documents with the end of his sword. "Not the _Pearl_," he said. "I'm getting her back."

The other man laughed, a thin, humourless laugh. "It's in pieces on the sea floor, Jack, you know that."

Catching Beckett's shoulder, Jack nodded. "And I'm getting' her back." He sliced sideways with the sword and caught the lock of mousy hair as it fell. Waving it in Beckett's face, he said, "this is my key to doing it." 

"Really, Jack, this is ridiculous," said Beckett. 

"Read up on your sea-lore, mate," Jack said. "Read up on Davy Jones. That's the business I'm about." He put the sword against Beckett's neck again. "Not that you'll have the time, of course."

The large and very English grandfather clock by the wall struck three. Beckett, stockstill, said, "The captain of the guard sees me at this time. Will he find me alive or dead, Jack?"

Outside the door there was the regular, approaching sound of footsteps. Jack hesitated. He had wanted nothing more than to end Beckett's miserable life, but now it came to it, he was not sure he was able to. This was not self-defence. This was not a duel. If he killed Beckett now, it would be no less a murder than the killing of his crew aboard the _Black Pearl_.

The footsteps approached. Jack hesitated. Beckett looked at him with those damnably calm eyes.

Jack swore, and took the sword away. It left a thin scratch from which blood began to seep, and Beckett put his hand to the wound.

Sheathing the sword, Jack made for the window, thanking whichever benevolent god that was watching over him for the fact Beckett's office was on the ground floor. Even as Beckett began to call for help, Jack was out of the window and running.

He made it out of the complex and into the crowds outside before the East India Company guards had had a chance to get moving and catch him. Ducking and weaving, Jack doubled back on himself twice and borrowed someone's washing, hung up to dry, to act as a makeshift sari. The disguise had worked before; it could work again.

He hid amid the bustling streets until it began to get dark. Then he followed his nose and found the docks.

Aarit's boat, a simple dhow with a single, lateen-rigged sail, was awaiting, the survivors from the _Black Pearl_ aboard. Jack cast off the mooring lines and sprang aboard as the dhow moved silently off her berth, slipping through the water of the harbour and out towards open ocean.

Nobody said anything until they were well offshore, the single sail drawing well with Aarit's skilful hand at the tiller. Jack sat fiddling with the tuft of Beckett's hair.

"Water?" Bill Turner sat down next to him.

"Ta." Jack drank. 

"Well?" asked Bill. "Happy? Is he dead?" 

"No. But he won't be forgetting Jack Sparrow in a hurry," Jack said. He held the hair up. "And I've got what I needed."

"It's just a superstition," said Bill, after a moment. "It's not goin' to work, Jack. It's just a daft superstition."

"Ever tried it?" asked Jack. "Course you haven't. So how d'you know it won't work?" 

It took them several days, but the dhow was well-provisioned. When Jack had outlined his plans to the crew there had been mutterings and some laughter, but they had obeyed his orders and now the boat was nearing the place where, as best they could work out, the _Pearl_ had been sunk.

They hove to on a calm morning, with scattered clouds in the sky. The crew gathered on deck, some looking apprehensive and others merely interested as Jack stood by the rail and took out the twist of Beckett's hair. He tried to remember what the legends said about how to do this, and after a moment tossed the hair overboard. It floated on the water's surface. Jack cleared his throat, looking down at the deep blue depths hiding the _Black Pearl_.

"I call upon thee, Davy Jones," he said, "to accept this token; and I implore thee, as ferryman of the departed, to bring back to me what was lost."

Someone behind him coughed, but Jack's attention was all on the sea. He did not notice the black clouds gathering, but he did notice the rush of water from the bow-wave of the great ship that rose out of nowhere. She was encrusted with barnacles and dripping with weed, and she dwarfed the dhow as she came alongside. Her crew - of men who did not look quite like men - lined the rail, gripping weapons.

Seconds later Jack found himself staring into the face of a tall figure, face framed by tentacles.

"You called me," it said. 

"Davy Jones?" said Jack, tentatively.

"Aye." 

"Thanks for coming," Jack said. "I want me ship back."

"And who might you be?" asked Jones, tipping his head on one side and fixing his gaze on Jack. 

"Jack Sparrow. Captain Jack Sparrow, of the _Black Pearl_. She's down there." Jack jerked his thumb at the ocean. "I gave you the bit of him what sank her - can you bring her back?"

Davy Jones laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. "You did'nae need the token, _Captain_ Sparrow," he said. "It's not that I desire from you."

"Oh," said Jack. "What do you desire? Want, I mean?"

"Your soul, Jack Sparrow," Jones said. "In exchange for your ship."

There was silence, save for the lapping of the waves against the hull of the dhow. Jack considered. "My soul?" 

"You'll have thirteen years," said Jones. "Thirteen years with your ship, and then I claim your soul."

Rising from his seat on a barrel, Bill Turner said, "no, Jack. Even the _Pearl_ ain't worth that."

Jack turned to look at his old friend. "This ain't your decision, Bill." He met Jones's eyes. "First off, tell me what happened to me crew." 

"They've passed on," Jones said. "I gave them the choice to join me crew aboard the _Dutchman_, but they chose death. They were loyal to you."

"They were good men," said Jack. "So, this soul deal - that's all there is to it? You give me the _Pearl_, an' in thirteen years you get me soul in exchange? What if someone kills me first?"

"Then I get your soul sooner," said Jones, "unless ye die on land. But I do not think that will be your fate, Jack Sparrow." 

Jack made his decision. He held out his hand. "Done." 

"Done?" Jones seemed slightly surprised.

"Done." 

"Few would make such a bargain," Jones said.

"I ain't many," Jack returned. "That ship's all I ever wanted. I'd rather have thirteen years with her than thirty with another." He waved his hand in Jones's face. "Done."

Jones extended a great lobster's claw as a hand. Carefully, Jack took it, and they shook. "Thirteen years," said Jones, and disappeared. A moment later they saw him aboard his ship, snapping orders to his crew; the _Dutchman_'s sails filled and she sank beneath the waters in a rush of foam.

Aboard the dhow, Jack and his men waited. Jack found himself gripping the rail with tight fingers, hoping he had not doomed himself for nothing.

And then the _Black Pearl_ rose from the depths, reforming into a single, whole ship as she did so. Splintered planking knitted together; shredded sails billowed above the decks. Jack found himself smiling at the sight of his beautiful vessel, but behind him Aarit cursed in Hindi and Frattori let out an awed "_cazzo_!" 

Jack did not care. The deal was worth it - Jones had kept to his word. Seizing a line, he swung across the narrow gap between the dhow and the resurrected _Pearl_, and landed on the dark deck. Everything was right; she had been brought back exactly as she was. Jack ran his hands over the old wood of the rail, felt the worn smoothness of the pins, tugged on a brace and saw the yard-arm above him respond. With joy in his heart he turned back to the dhow.

"All right, you lubbers! Aboard, and we'll have courses and topsails set. If I ain't mistaken there's a good northerly coming. We're settin' a course for the Caribbean."

The crew exchanged glances, but followed him aboard the black ship and set about obeying his orders. Jack went to the bridge, rested his hands on the well-known helm, and felt the old movement of his beloved ship beneath his feet. 

"Brace sharp to starboard," he called.

The _Pearl_ picked up speed, leaving the dhow bobbing in her wake. The men hauled taut on the lines until the sails were set to Jack's satisfaction.

"Now," Jack said, as much to the ship as to himself, "bring me that horizon."


End file.
